The sudden and sweeping popularity of the Compass, the symbol of the NPP/JVP-led government in Sri Lanka, is not merely a political phenomenon but a striking reflection of the collective psyche of a nation steeped in disillusionment, anger, and desperation. The Compass did not rise to power on a wave of clarity, vision, or structural reform but through a carefully curated illusion, a masterclass in weaponising public emotion and exploiting the wreckage left by decades of mismanagement. It was not just a political campaign; it was a carefully orchestrated spectacle that thrived on fantasies, scapegoating, and an unrelenting assault on an already fragile political system.
The first pillar of this popularity was ambiguity—an ambiguity so well-calculated that it allowed the masses to construct their own utopias. Anura Kumara Dissanayake, the figurehead of the Compass, never articulated a clear economic model. Instead, he deliberately left the space open for interpretation. Each supporter could imagine their ideal system—be it socialism, capitalism, or a hybrid—within the blank canvas offered by the Compass. This was not leadership through vision but manipulation through silence, allowing fantasy to fill the gaps where policy should have been. The genius of this tactic lay in its simplicity: why alienate any segment of the population when you can let them project their hopes onto an empty vessel?
At the heart of the Compass’s appeal was its unrelenting critique of the economic crisis. The narrative was not one of complex structural failures or systemic corruption involving all stakeholders—public officials, citizens, and politicians alike—but a singular, reductionist blame game aimed squarely at the ruling elites of the time. “He caused this crisis; she caused that disaster,” the Compass leaders declared with the theatrical venom of a courtroom drama. This simplistic rhetoric, though devoid of nuance or accountability, struck a chord with a population desperate for someone to punish. The spectacle of castigating politicians with five-pointed verbal blows offered catharsis, not solutions. Crowds cheered not because they understood the root causes of their suffering but because they were momentarily freed from their own complicity in the system.
Once the Compass seized power, its promises of retribution against the “criminal politicians” became a central pillar of its legitimacy. The fantasy of punishment, paraded as justice, resonated with a population battered by the economic crisis. The idea that corrupt politicians would finally face consequences was intoxicating to those who had suffered under their rule. Yet, this vow of vengeance did not address the structural corruption that pervades Sri Lanka. Instead, it provided a moral escape hatch for public servants and citizens who bear a significant share of responsibility for the system’s failures. The Compass, in its cunning, absolved this larger pool of “citizen thieves,” shifting the entirety of blame onto the political class. The people, delighted to find themselves declared innocent by association, flocked to the Compass in droves.
Anura Kumara’s Compass also succeeded by weaponising the failures of the traditional ruling elite. Through relentless sloganeering, they marginalised political opponents, branding them as relics of a corrupt past. Phrases like “They’ve been eating the country for 76 years” and “Let’s clean the Parliament” were more than populist rhetoric; they were psychological weapons. Opponents were not merely criticised; they were dehumanised, reduced to caricatures of greed and incompetence. The Compass created a binary world—us versus them, purity versus corruption, salvation versus damnation. This mental marginalisation of opposition forces left little room for rational discourse or alternative perspectives, turning politics into a zero-sum game.
Fear, too, was a central component of the Compass’s rise. The party created a sense of existential dread around the actions of previous governments, painting them as reckless scapegoaters whose policies were a direct threat to the nation’s survival. Their speeches about the IMF, foreign loans, and money printing were crafted to instil paranoia and reinforce the idea that only the Compass could rescue Sri Lanka from impending doom. This fear was not an invitation to deeper understanding or engagement; it was a bludgeon to silence dissent and consolidate power.
The Compass also provided refuge for society’s outcasts—the incompetent, the dishonest, the sidelined. Figures like Bandula Herath, once marginalised for their actions, were rehabilitated and thrust into positions of influence. The stage of the Compass became a parade ground for individuals burned by their past dishonesty, using politics as a tool for personal revenge or rehabilitation. Whether it was disgraced government officials, opportunistic artists, or vengeful businessmen, the Compass offered a platform for those seeking redemption or revenge, regardless of merit or morality.
The rise of social media amplified the Compass’s narrative. A new class of “YouTube beggars” emerged, crafting content that glorified Anura Kumara and his party. These digital propagandists monetised their allegiance, creating a parallel economy of political influence. The Compass mastered this medium, using it to spread its ideology far and wide. Social media was not just a tool for outreach; it became an echo chamber where dissent was drowned out, and the Compass was exalted as the only path forward.
All of this unfolded against a backdrop of collapse. The Rajapaksas, Sirisenas, Premadasas, and Wickremesinghes had eroded the rule of law, turning Sri Lanka into a rogue state where chaos was the norm. Their incompetence and corruption created a vacuum of legitimacy that the Compass filled with lies presented as salvation. The failures of these political dynasties were undeniable, but the Compass’s response was not to offer truth or reform. Instead, it institutionalised deception as a political strategy, weaponising the people’s desperation for its own gain.
The Compass’s rise is not merely a commentary on the failures of its predecessors. It is a mirror reflecting the deep contradictions of a society that demands justice while perpetuating injustice, that craves reform while resisting accountability. In a country where lies have become the currency of power, the Compass was simply the most effective liar. It did not break the cycle; it perfected it. The question now is whether the people, trapped in their fantasies and fears, will ever find the courage to confront the truths they have spent decades avoiding. Until they do, the Compass, like its predecessors, will remain a symbol not of progress but of the perpetual stasis that defines Sri Lankan politics.
The views expressed are personal.
